


tickling the tail of a sleeping dragon

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Depression, F/M, Self Harm, Suicidal Ideation, some Quite Graphic References to Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 07:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11778294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: Fitz wondered if the creators of the atomic bomb had ever felt like this. Sure, Oppenheimer had gone on to live a long life and die of cancer, but Eatherly and Slotin hadn’t come out of it so well. The hands that built and fired the weapons. They always seemed to end up worse off than the masterminds, in every war - and somehow, this time, Fitz was both.-TW: references to self harm (cutting) & suicidal ideation, some of which are quite graphic.





	tickling the tail of a sleeping dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Florchis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florchis/gifts).



> Prompt: Fitz starts self-harming to cope with the Framework aftermath.
> 
> This is *quite angsty* and contains a lot of references to suicidal ideation, extreme guilt, and self harm - some of which are quite graphic. It does end hopefully so it is not all dark, but it's worth a warning.
> 
> Title based on the story of Louis Slotin, an important person in assembling the atomic bombs dropped during the Manhattan project (WWII). Though his death was not technically a suicide, it has been speculated that he was acting recklessly in the lead-up. His actual death occurred during a dangerous experiment wherein he was moving fissile materials closer and closer together to push them close to critical reactivity, reportedly with a screwdriver, when the screwdriver slipped and the particles came too close. He allegedly pushed them apart with his bare hands, saving onlookers but himself receiving a fatal dose of radiation. Fellow nuclear scientist Richard Feynman had referred to this experiment as "tickling the tail of a sleeping dragon;" essentially, asking for death.

They weren’t mad. 

Not at him. They hated Aida, hated Radcliffe, hated _God,_ but never him. Not to his face, anyway. He supposed it was to be expected; they knew how fragile he was, and he had been through a lot, despite what he’d also brought down on them. But a man was dead because of him, and Fitz wished that just once, someone would get properly mad at him for it.

Jemma had tried once. Maybe somewhere in there she really was angry. Angry about being lied to, angry at the way he’d let himself get tricked again when he knew better. But when she tried to yell at him about it she yelled at his father instead, and at Radcliffe, and at Aida, and she started crying about how his mind and body had been turned inside out and she’d been scared of him, and how she was still scared, and angry on both of their behalves that something like that could have happened.

So Fitz had a guilt left uncleansed. He felt it on his skin, tasted it in his food. He thought that maybe this was what prison was for – to make you suffer the sensations of your own guilt. But then, everyone else was in here too. The innocent people. Well – maybe not quite innocent, but innocent of this. His best friends were in here with him, being punished alongside him, and for all their reassurances of camaraderie, Fitz knew that it was him they were here for. So nothing that happened to all of them was enough for what should happen to him. 

The others all told him it was going to be all right; that if anything, he should be grateful, be relieved, that the world was no longer at stake. But it had always been Fitz’s way to see the little things, like the way Mack mourned a wound that Fitz had somehow re-opened. Like the way Coulson doubted himself, poring over old cases and wondering if his willful ignorance had been as dangerous out here as it had in there. Like the way, though it broke his heart, that Daisy couldn’t stand by him in the lab while he worked, even on something as mundane as a toaster. And Jemma - Jemma flinched away from him sometimes. Just sometimes, just a little, but he could see that she hated herself for it. 

So perhaps the world was not at stake, but _his_ world had all but been blown to smithereens and he was walking through the aftermath alone. 

And he deserved to. 

Because even if the others were right, and he really was a good person, he’d still done bad things. Horrible things. 

_Like. Crimes-against-humanity bad._

He deserved these ghosts, this doubt. He deserved everything he had coming to him. A man was dead because of him, because of real foolish – selfish – decisions he had made, even before the Framework. Maybe Jemma had been right in her utilitarianism all along, Fitz thought. Maybe he should not have tried to protect her with Aida. Maybe the cost was too high – not that he’d known it at the time, but he should have seen it coming. 

 _Potentiality._ Fitz wondered if the creators of the atomic bomb had ever felt like this. Sure, Oppenheimer had gone on to live a long life and die of cancer, but Eatherly and Slotin hadn’t come out of it so well. The hands that built and fired the weapons. They always seemed to end up worse off than the masterminds, in every war - and somehow, this time, Fitz was both. 

He turned his face up into the water of the shower. He wished it was hotter. Or colder. Either one would do; just anything but this indifferent purgatory of a temperature splashing into his eyes and mouth. He wished it was faster, harder, enough to sting his skin. He longed for a sensation, any sensation, more interesting than broth. More worth living for than helpless guilt. He longed for ecstacy, rage, agony, anything.

Instead he had lukewarm water. Towels that were not quite threadbare, but were not plush enough to actually dry anything, and fifty-cent soap that stunk like chemicals when all he wanted was to be clean of them. He had a girlfriend who loved him but could barely talk to him, and a best friend who talked but couldn’t comfort him. Nothing could comfort him. He didn’t want to be comforted. He’d thought being with the team would help, but this didn’t feel like being with anyone. Or rather, it felt too much like being with them, when he knew with his whole heart that he should be here, and they should be free. 

Maybe Jemma had been right in her utilitarianism all along. Maybe the good of the many was more important than the needs of the few – and more than that; maybe the harmful, rotten few should be thrown away for the good of the many.

Maybe he should…

Maybe he _should._

Fitz’s eyes dropped to where Jemma’s razor sat in a tray with soap, and a shower rose, and sharp edges. The gleam of the blade entranced him, promising to be the only thing in this place that could give him that sensation he so longed for. And the pain – the pain that he deserved. 

He picked it up, and pressed his thumb against the blade. Blood welled, and Fitz hissed through his teeth, but he didn’t pull away. He pressed harder. A sharp pang of regret – of instinct trying to force him back to safety – was soon drowned in a feeling of calm and clarity. All his attention, just for a second, was pulled down to that one feeling. Finally, something all-consuming. 

And then it was gone, the cut made, the pain over. Fitz remembered he was standing in a dank, all-but-communal shower in a prison in space and he remembered why he was standing there and he remembered why he’d cut himself and still, he didn’t regret it. He should regret it, right? He should be horrified with himself. He should get help, immediately. 

Or he could… try again. Try for better. He wasn’t ready to open a vein – not truly ready to die, and certainly not ready for Jemma, or anyone else, to see what he was doing. And yet, the compulsion refused to leave him. It only grew stronger. If this, a mere scratch, could make him feel such a high, what could something deeper do? It was simple scientific method…. Only, corrupted by the very pain that blinded him to its corruption. He knew only that he was getting what he deserved, and it felt as satisfying as any praise or accolade he could have dreamed.

Was this penance? 

Did it still count as penance if it made him feel better, and not worse? 

And what should he do now? 

Fitz took a deep breath, and let instinct drive him. He pressed the blade against his thigh. It was easy enough to cut oneself by accident with one of these; surely it would be even easier on purpose. And the important arteries were on the inside of the leg, he figured, so he was safe. (ish). He pressed and dragged, and hissed through his teeth as the blade skittered along his skin. It was messier than he’d been anticipating; four tiny blades made for more ragged cuts than one thin one would have. Shallower, too. It was not as satisfying as the first time. 

But God, it stung, and it brought tears to his eyes, and that was not nothing. 

“Fitz?”

He jumped, bumping into the walls of the small shower cubicle as he threw himself off balance. It was Jemma’s voice, and now he could hear her coming down the isle toward him.

“Is that you in there? Are you nearly done?”

 _Shit. SHIT._ Fitz’s heart raced. He struggled to think what to do with Jemma’s razor. Should he put it back? Should he get of the shower? He still had blood on his leg. Those hawk eyes of hers would notice. He shouldn’t put the razor back. It was unhygienic. It had his blood on it. He still had blood on him. She was too close now not to notice. 

“Sorry, is that Fitz? Or someone else? It’s just – I’ve got to shower before inspection and I’ve – I’ve left my razor in that cubicle. It’s got the best water pressure so… I mean, I don’t mind, if you could just pass the razor…” 

She trailed off. Fitz squeezed his eyes shut. Every other sentence seemed an effort for her these days. Another loss that was on his hands. And though it made him feel sick to the heart, he knew he was about to make things worse. He had to lie to her. He couldn’t very well tell her about this, could he? Instead, he envisioned where his towel was. Just across the corridor.

He lunged for it. Jemma yelped in surprise as he suddenly sprung out of the shower, but he did it without slipping, and managed to wrap up his lower half in the towel before they’d both sorted out their bumbling limbs.

“Yes,” he insisted, waving his hand at the cubicle in a fluster. “Done. I’m done. You can have it.” 

Jemma frowned, and glanced inside the cubicle and back. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Mmhmm.” Still trying to get a handle on his wide eyes, Fitz nodded. “Just… thinking. About… things. Didn’t see your razor though. Wonder where that’s gone? Didn’t Daisy tell you never to leave things in a communal bathroom?” 

He cleared his throat, and realised that was a mistake as it drew attention to the way his voice strained. He was usually a much better liar than this, but to put it kindly he didn’t have the willpower to commit to a better one. It was too late now, anyway. He barreled toward the main bathroom doorway and Jemma let him go. (Aside from anything else, she was already undressed; it would be a nuisance to go after him now). But she frowned to herself. Fitz was acting strangely. Well, particularly strangely. It was not as if anybody was acting ‘normally’ these days, and Fitz was not exactly stable at the moment, but his elusiveness still put her on edge. As for the razor… It was indeed not here, where she’d left it, but the bathroom was only shared by the team; she couldn’t think why any of them would take it. 

Then she noticed a tiny smear of blood near the hot water tap, and suddenly, it came to her.

- 

Fitz panicked. He threw on the first combination of clothes he could find – not that that was a problem; basically everything was grey here – and looked around his room for ideas. Should he keep the razor? With a sickly pining, he already longed to press it against his skin again, in the privacy of his own cell. But Jemma’s razor was officially missing now. What would happen if he was discovered with it? What would his captors think? What would Jemma think? That it was some sort of sick memento? Or would they see right through it? Either way, he couldn’t keep it. But he couldn’t throw it out in his own bin either. He needed a communal one. One as public as he could get. That way it would be taken out sooner too.

_The kitchen._

He pulled himself together and set himself on the path, keeping to a pace that was fast but hopefully not suspicious. Just eager to get in a snack before dinner. He had a set of steps all muddled together in his brain but his body knew what it was doing by now. Like a survival mechanism, it moved flawlessly. 

In. Fridge. Bin. Cupboard. Tea. Kettle. Cup. Tissues. Throw them in the bin and bump it for good measure. Back to the kettle. Waiting patiently and definitely not out of breath. Smile. Smile at Daisy. 

She smiled uncertainly back.

“How’re you doing?” 

“Tea,” Fitz replied. “I mean. I’m in the mood for it. Tea. D’you want some?” 

“Sure.” 

Daisy took a mug from the cupboard above their heads and set it down beside his. Fitz smiled amicably. Daisy couldn’t see his clenched fist or the way he was ever-so-carefully regulating his breath. As he became more sure of this, his fist unclenched, and his breathing steadied naturally. He thought he might just get away with it – to rehash his plan another day – as he waited for the tea to infuse and then pulled his bag out. He let Daisy take it off him on her way to the bin, where she dropped both of the teabags in. 

It was that split second that betrayed Fitz. His fatal error.

Or one that potentially saved his life, depending how one looked at it.

Because the teabags hit the tissues, and soaked them and moved them, and Daisy saw the gleam of metal beneath them and looked harder. Pink plastic. A razor. Jemma’s; the kind with the detachable head. Only, she hadn’t detached it. And she’d thrown it away in the kitchen, of all places. 

Or had she? 

And was that… blood? 

“Coming?” Fitz invited. “To the – lounge?” 

Daisy smiled at him, and the answer to her questions seemed obvious. At the same time, more questions were raised. What had Fitz been doing with Jemma’s razor? Why was he trying to throw it out with her knowledge? It could have been part of some zany experiment, Daisy reminded herself; this was a man who had probably come out of the womb with a working potato clock in his hands. But nothing in their lives was ever that benign these days.

Jemma’s thoughts took a similar path as she scrutinized Fitz from across the room. She’d skipped the shower. They’d dock points, but it was worth it to keep an eye on him. And, great, now she was making it worse as she bit at a nail anxiously while studying him. Fitz had a band-aid on his finger, but he could have cut it in the kitchen just now, or working earlier today, or anything. That could be where the blood was from. But then, why had Fitz been so skittish in the showers, and what had happened to her razor?

And why did Daisy look like she’d uncovered something she wished she hadn’t?

Jemma closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. She did have a penchant for jumping to horrific conclusions, but with good reason; namely, that the gradual conclusions that she let run their course tended to be horrific too. She’d always known Fitz had very deep-running emotions and considerable self-esteem issues that had, unsurprisingly, been worse of late. It was not too hard to believe that with so much guilt as well, he might – well, do something… drastic. She’d just always hoped that he would reach out to her before it got to that point. 

Then again, his whole time here had been one giant cry for help. She’d just never known how to answer it. Sympathy? Reassurance? Anger? Quiet? None of them had seemed to work. Not for lack of trying. Sometimes, it seemed - as much as she hated to admit it - that love just was not enough. It certainly didn’t help that no therapist in the universe would be up to the challenge by this point. They just had to muddle through and do the best they could. Which, she hoped, could be better than this.

Daisy fought her way across the room to Jemma as soon as she could. From the worry in her eyes, it was obvious that she knew something was up. Before she could open her mouth, however, Daisy pulled her aside and whispered: 

“I’m worried about Fitz.” 

Jemma squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh god. Me too. What did he do?” 

“I was hoping you could tell me.” Daisy grimaced. If she’d seen the worst of it, it wasn’t looking good. “I… found your razor in the kitchen bin just now. The whole thing. I think Fitz was trying to get rid of it for some reason.”

“Some reason?” Jemma repeated; trying and failing to sound hopeful, as though there might be a reason other than the one she’d come to. Then, she confessed; “I thought as much. He was acting strangely in the showers just now, like he was hiding something. Maybe it was that. But tell me, Daisy, do you think-“ 

“Do _you_ think…?” 

“I’m afraid I do.”

Jemma sighed, her eyes drifting back to Fitz. He hung near Mack and Elena like a bored, and slightly anxious dog. He was avoiding Jemma’s eyes, and Daisy’s, and though he’d brought a cup of tea with him, he only seemed to be drinking it for want of something better to do. He kicked at the scrappy carpet. Jemma felt tears prick at her eyes.

“I thought he would tell me. I always thought he would tell me if something was… that wrong,” she whispered. “How foolish.”

“No, come on, not foolish,” Daisy assured her, without quite as much heart as she was aiming for. “This thing’s taken a toll on all of us. And he’s still here, alright? If he wanted to not be, he’d… not be, by now. He knows what he’s doing, crazy as that sounds.” 

 _“Knows what he’s doing?!”_ Jemma squeaked, and took conscious effort to hush her voice again. “Daisy, he cut himself in the shower. On purpose. And tried to hide the evidence. He’s not okay!” 

“I didn’t say he was okay, I said he knows what he’s doing, and we probably shouldn’t talk about this here.”

In louder voices, they made a point about Jemma borrowing something of Daisy’s and ducked out into the hall, where they continued to bicker in stage-whispered tones. Jemma’s intense protectiveness flared with a touch of rage. Daisy, as mad as it seemed, took a more nuanced approach, insisting that self-harm and suicide were not the same thing. 

“Now, see, what I’m saying is,” she insisted. “That makes our job tricky, because we have to get him to stop without pushing him forward. And that’s a lot of responsibility. We have to be careful.” 

“Careful?!” Jemma yelped. “We have to stop him right now. I’ll handcuff him to the bed if I have to.” 

“Oh, yeah, wrap his wrists in strips of metal, that’s a _great_ idea,” Daisy quipped, glaring. Jemma glared back for a moment, but the effect was tempered somewhat by a slight but relentless sheen of tears in her eyes. 

“Okay, but what do we do?” she wondered, her voice small and helpless. Her hands grasped at imaginary straws in thin air, and she pressed them to her neck instead, feeling the beat of her own heart in her carotid. It was a lot faster than she would have liked. She struggled to breathe smoothly enough to slow it down, but gradually, she got there. “What do we do?” 

“Well. It’s not like I’m an expert or anything, but I know there are alternative behaviours you can substitute in for more harmful ones?” Daisy suggested. “Unfortunately… it’s not going to get you out of a tough conversation.” 

“Me?” Jemma repeated.

“Well, I can give it a shot, but I think he might take it better coming from you. Plus… you can pull the Doctor card on him, I can’t.” 

“I’m not a real doctor.” 

“Psht. As if he cares.” 

“You’re right. You’re right. It’s – it’ll be fine. Somehow.” Jemma nodded uncertainly. “He didn’t want us to know. Once he knows we do, he’ll stop. He won’t want to scare us, or hurt us. He’ll stop. I’ll start from there and… work the rest out.” 

“Careful,” Daisy reminded her. “You don’t want to make him think he has nothing to live for but us. He already thinks he’s trouble. If he thinks we’re better off without him it’s only going to get worse.”

“Oh, Lord,” Jemma murmured. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be doing this?”

“I don’t think we should team up on him,” Daisy pointed out. “And you’re the one that grounds him to reality. You’ve been with him the longest. Not just because you’re you, but because you’ve been with him half his life. If he starts to panic, you’re in the best place to pull him out of it. You can do it, Jem. And if either of you need a shoulder to cry on, then come to me. I’ll be right here, okay?”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll just…” 

Jemma scanned the room and her heart plummeted. It was approaching dinner – they were about to be called any second – and Fitz had disappeared. As relaxed as these few minutes seemed to be, it was only on the condition that role call was met. Where was Fitz? And more importantly, what was he doing? Was he trying to get punished? Would a baton to the legs satisfy his craving for pain; his desire to seek out abuse? Jemma raked her hands down the sides of her face. 

“I have to go,” she whispered. 

“I’ll cover for you,” Daisy replied, but Jemma was already gone. 

-

Jemma checked the bathroom again, heart racing until she had gone up and down the isle and confirmed that every cubicle was empty. There were very few other places he could have gone. She checked the toilets, and after that all that was left was his room.

He’d locked the door. Well, barricaded it with something, since they didn’t have locks. A bad sign. Jemma felt a little like throwing up, but she knocked on the door instead. 

“Fitz?” she asked. Then louder; “Fitz? It’s dinnertime. We’re going to be late for inspection.” 

“You go,” he insisted, his voice weak and unsteady. “Go without me.”

Jemma gritted her teeth, and shoved her weight against the barricade. It barely moved, so she tried again. 

 _“Fitz,”_ she growled. “I’m not leaving you. What’s going on?” 

“Nothing, I’m just… not well,” Fitz said. “Go. Please?”

Jemma sighed, and let her weight drop against the door. Every word felt exhausting, but she spoke them. She had to.

“Daisy saw you try to throw away my razor. I saw the blood in the shower, Fitz. I know something is wrong. I’m not going to walk away and let you hurt yourself. That’s just not going to happen.”

Fitz hissed through his teeth. “It’s too late for that.” 

Jemma’s heart clenched. She stood, wondering just how much power she would need to barrel through that door. Should she get Daisy after all? Or Mack? They would come, in an instant.

But then there was a clutter of furniture moving out of the way and Jemma stumbled through the door that all but swung open for her. Fitz was curled up on the bed, having kicked a chair out from under the handle with his leg. The cracked porcelain of his teacup, and the spilled drink, decorated the floor, and blood soaked his sheets. So much blood.

“I made a mistake,” he whimpered. It was a struggle to meet Jemma’s eyes, but she knelt in the spilt tea to reach him. Brushed the curls out of his eyes. His pallor was pale, almost greenish, and his forehead coated in a light, cold sweat. With shaking lips, he begged; “Help me, Jemma.” 

She nodded. Over and over again. She nodded furiously. Anything he needed, she would give. She looked him over and found a bloodsoaked rag – a shirt? A pillowcase? Both, apparently, wrapped around his forearm in one soggy, bloody mass. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Fitz explained, helpless. “Too much, too sharp, too deep… It won’t stop hurting, Jemma. It’s supposed to stop.” 

Jemma took a deep breath and pried away the material. She swallowed a grimace at three long, fine cuts. Two of them were not all that bad, but one of them had ripped into some fatty tissue. She was surprised Fitz hadn’t thrown up at the sight of that. At least he hadn’t cut the vein. It was fixable. It was survivable. She very nearly slumped in relief.

Then, she did not. A glimmer of purpose returned to her eyes. She sat straighter, and picked up another nearby shirt to press against his wound.

“You hold this. Not too much pressure but don’t you dare let go. I’m going to get some glue and bandages. I fully expect you to be breathing when I come back.” 

Fitz smiled weakly. “Yes Ma’am.” 

She took off down the hall like a bullet. If they spotted her and pulled her into inspection now, who knew what would happen? She’d probably incapacitate them and go on her way. With the sense of urgency running through her right now, she probably could. Even a cattle prod couldn’t stop her now.

(Except, scientifically, it could – so she really hoped it didn’t come to that.) 

She gathered an armful of supplies and ran back to Fitz’s side. There were cameras everywhere. She’d probably be reprimanded later, so she’d deal with it then. Their captors did seem to want them to take care of themselves though, so maybe she could get out of it that way. She tucked the plan away in her mind to work on itself while she went about cleaning and repairing Fitz’s wounds. Once his arm was wrapped up to her satisfaction, she eased him to sitting and helped him into a long-sleeved shirt that covered up the bandage. He watched her forlornly.

“I’m sorry, Jemma,” he said. “I love you.” 

“Yes, well…” Jemma choked up, and blinked back tears. She’d done well not letting them actually fall until this point, and she was determined to stick with it, so she kissed his fingers gently instead. “I love you too. But come on. We’re late for tea.” 

Fitz shook his head, but Jemma brooked no opposition. She hauled him to his feet and led him down to the mess hall. One of the guards stepped up to meet them and Fitz all but pulled Jemma behind him, puffing his chest to front the guard.

“Sorry, sir, it was my fault, I –“ 

“Couldn’t resist a little alone time,” Jemma finished for him, nudging him in the ribs with a playful smile. “You know how we are. Lovebirds.”

The crack of the nightstick against her shins quickly wiped the smile off her face, but at least she had a publicly explicable reason to look a little tearful as she hobbled down the isle to Daisy’s table, hauling Fitz after her. Daisy’s wide, concerned eyes spoke volumes. Fitz avoided them. 

“Are you okay?” Daisy asked.

“Maybe one day,” Fitz muttered, bitterly. Helplessly. Even with half his body in pain, he still felt a little like stealing Daisy’s bread-knife, but he didn’t. Not least because Jemma had pressed herself against his side, so that they were touching lightly all the way down, and intertwined her fingers with his below the table. His grasp was weak – muscles unwilling to extend and refresh the wounds – but hers was strong. It was all they had in this place, and she was never letting go. 

It had always been Fitz’s way to see the little things, and sometimes, that was something to be grateful for.


End file.
